Harry Potter and the Last Wind Whisperer
by Bronte Ananda
Summary: When an orphaned girl is brought to Hogwarts, she brings with her more than friendship and hope, but also a dark past that threatens the future.
1. Foreword

Foreword

The little girl, blond curls falling loosely over her shoulders, tugged off her shoes and touched her feet to the green grass. She traced circles in the ground with her small toe, and watched a grass hopper jump by. She found her way off the cool concrete of the back porch steps and to a solitary swing, swaying lightly in the morning breeze. She ran her hand over the cold wrought-iron seat, not yet warmed from the sun, and sat, watching the yard around her.

The lot was at the corner of the town, and had a small fenced garden and little glen of trees. Weeds grew up around the earth; the un-kept grass contrasting sharply with the neat and tidy yards of the neighbors. The building behind the girl was old and crumbling, the siding sagging like wrinkles in a grandmother's cheek. The chipped paint on the sign above the front door read "Orphanage For Girls."

From a second-story window, several curious heads peeked out at the girl in the garden below. With their faces against the glass, the girls murmured about their visitor. "Wonder who she is..." An older girl said. "Do we have a new friend?" Asked a little one.

Below, the girl was listening to a different conversation, happening just inside the back door. A heavy-set woman with a kind face and flushed cheeks, her hair pulled back into a loose braid, tied an apron around her waist as she spoke to another.

"I'm sure we will have enough for the month, Mrs. Klaus. Donations have been very generous of late." The woman said. The voice belonged to Mrs. Walker, an older woman with graying hair and a kind heart.

"That's good. Very good." Another voice responded. This woman's tone was colder, harsher, even as the pair continued to talk about finances. The girl let the words run together in her ears, drowning out the sounds of the conversation with the mesmerizing movement of the grass. The harder she listened, the more it seemed to be speaking to her. The wind ruffled her hair.

She became suddenly aware of the lowered voices from the porch.

"...A terrible tragedy." The woman said in a hushed tone. "Both parents presumed dead..."

"An accident?" Inquired the other voice, hidden in the shadows of the orphanage.

"No, I'm afraid not. It was much, much worse..."

The girl squeezed her eyes shut. A single tear slid down her pink cheek. The wind picked up all around her, carrying off the voices, and seemingly shielding her fragile body. Raindrops began to lightly pound the ground around her. Then, from somewhere in the tall grass, came another voice:

"Don't cry, child."

To her surprise, the words were coming from _below_ her. She scanned the blades of grass, and gasped when she saw a tiny black-capped chickadee staring up at her. She couldn't believe what she was seeing, until it opened its little beak, and spoke again.

"Everything will be okay." Suddenly, it fluttered up onto her knee. Awestruck, she sat motionless on the swing, the cold of the seat slowly spreading through the thin material of her skirt. "These are dark times, but light will come."

The bird twittered in the breeze, singing a soft, sweet song, like a long lost lullaby. For the first time in many days, a smile crossed her lips, and she reached out and slid her small hand down the bird's back, her eyes drying. In the sky, the gray clouds began to disappear and the last raindrop fell with a faint _ping_.

The woman in the door gasped, and sailed towards her, the half tied strings of her apron flailing in the wind. "Good heavens, girl! Don't pet the birds!" The woman pulled the little girl up by her waist and dragged her towards the porch.

She waved to the chickadee, who had flown to the top of the swing, ignoring the woman's anxious mumbling from over her shoulder. As she was pulled through the porch door, the girl watched the chickadee do the most curious thing, even more curious tweeting in a British accent:

It winked.


	2. Gifts

Chapter One: Gifts

A soft morning breeze blew in the open window, sending ripples and waves through the twelve sets of white sheets. The wind swished around the room, through the dozen beds, flipping the pages of an open book, blowing papers from a small desk desk in the corner. The air wove between the bottles of half-empty nail polish and brushes splayed haphazardly on the worn out vanity, silently circling, quietly searching. The wind made its way to an old end table across the room from the vanity, where an ancient radio sat, looking out over the wood floors. The air twisted its invisible hand around radio's silver dial and turned.

A guitar began to hammer out a tune, filling the room with music. The girl nearest to the radio stirred beneath the bedspread. Shortly, a tambourine pulled her from her dream. She mumbled and groaned, pulling the covers over her ears, until a voice joined the instruments:

"_Do you believe in magic? _

_In a young girls heart  
How the music can free her  
whenever it starts,"_

A bewildered head emerged from under the covers. Others began to moan and mumble around the room.  
_"And it's magic  
if the music is groovy  
It makes you feel happy like an old time movie.  
I'll tell ya about the magic  
It'll free your soul  
but it's like trying to tell a stranger 'bout rock n roll..."_

The girl by the radio lay propped up on her elbows, mystified, as the decaying speakers thudded out the beat to the song.

"What is that?" Another girl asked sleepily.

"Shut it off!" Another groaned.

The girl reached for the dial, but before she could touch it, the song let out one last line and clicked off. Her hand hovered for a moment, unsure and confused. As she heard the murmurs of annoyed thanks from the other beds, she let her hand drop back to the bed.

Still bewildered, the girl laid back under the covers, listening as the breathing from the other beds began to slow and soft snores began rising into the chilly air of the room. After a while, she too closed her eyes in an attempt to sleep, to slip back into that peaceful darkness, and to hide from the coming day for just a few more moments.

-----------------

"Avonlea..." A voice said. The words seemed far away. "Avonlea, wake up..." There was a sudden shake on her shoulder. The sounds around her became clearer as the dream that had been playing out deep in her mind began to disintegrate. Desperately, she tried to keep her hold on the images: a house... smiling faces... then a storm... and darkness... and a terrifying scream. She struggled to keep them in sight, but, as always, they slipped through her fingers, just out of reach, into the dark confines of her mind.

"Avonlea! Wake up!" The voice said again, this time more urgency in its tone. Slowly, her eyes fluttered open. She was blinded by the light of the room for a moment, then recovered, to see a girl standing above her.

"Helen..." Avonlea murmured sleepily. "What time is it?"

"Never mind," Helen whispered quickly. "Rotund's headed this way!"

Avonlea was immediately awake and springing out of her bed. Rotund was the name the girls of the orphanage had given to their caretaker, Rotunda Klaus. The woman was wicked and terribly bitter, and about as mean as she was wide.

And she was _very _wide.

Avonlea whipped out of her nightgown into her jeans and her nicest blouse, which had been a donation from a nearby church. Quickly she ran to the vanity, running a brush through her long blonde hair and rubbing her tired eyes. The creaky steps across the hall began to moan, straining against the wait of Rotunda's steps. All around her, girls scrambled across the wood floor, tripping and running to line up neatly at the feet of their beds.

Their was a thunderous crash of wood on metal as the door handle smashed in the wall. Two large feet entered, clad in shining leather shoes, with nylon-ed ankles bulging beneath the straps. Avonlea watched as the rest of the woman clamored into the bedroom.

Rotunda Klaus was a big-boned woman with a height of six feet, and a width almost as large. Her eyes were beady and sharp, a piercing black, what Avonlea thought was the color of her soul. She wore a gray dress suit, a charcoal skirt stretched thin around her hips, barely hiding her pillow-sized knees. The buttons on her jacket looked as if they would pop with her next step; however, they stayed sewn to the material as Rotunda Klaus walked to the center of the room.

She turned slowly, like a vulture surveying the girls, her beak-like nose scrunched up with her mouth in the form of a deep, permanent grimace. Then, she walked to the first nearest to the door, and spoke:

"Hang the linens, Meakly." She barked at the mousy girl.

"T-thank you, ma'am." She stammered, but remained in her place, waiting for dismissal.

Rotunda moved slowly to the next girl. "Dishes. Washed, dried, and stowed." She moved along the line. "The windows, all washed twice." The floors seemed to bend under her steps. "The weeding in the yard." She continued on for seven more girls, all given seven grueling tasks.

She approached Helen. "Butram. You can start on the breakfast/"

Helen looked to Avonlea, and flashed her a small encouraging smile.

Then, Rotunda turned to Avonlea. She could see the slightest hint of a devilish grin twitch out on the sides of her lips. Rotunda had had it in for Avonlea since the day she arrived, and had been enjoying every minute of the girl's torture since the previous character, Mrs. Walker, had grown too old for the job. Avonlea still wondered where the woman had gone, and if she ever thought what a monster she had entrusted the care of twelve girls to.

Rotunda's harsh voice pulled her out of her thoughts. "And what shall we have you do, hm? Sweeping seems too easy, and you cleaned the chimney yesterday..." The woman paused, drumming her fingers on her chin.

"Actually, ma'am, seeing as today is, well... I was wondering... if I could have the day off?" Avonlea asked.

"Think you're special, Wickentower?" Rotunda snapped.

"No, Ms. Klaus." Avonlea replied. But there was a flicker of daring that went through her eyes.

"Think you're more than you are? That you get to take the day off while the others work their way around you?"

"There's nothing left to do. And no one has ever had a day's rest. We deserve--"

"You deserve? You deserve?!" Rotunda shouted, her face inches away from Avonlea's, so close that Rotunda could have pecked Avonlea's bright blue eyes out with her ugly beak nose. "You deserve a whole lot less than what you've got! You ungrateful git! It's no wonder your parents tossed to the orphanage door! They threw you out like the trash you are."

"That's a lie." Avonlea said, through clenched teeth. Outside, the sky darkened, and rain began to pelt the glass of the open window, and pour through, soaking the wood floor.

"Yeah? You're parents probably didn't even die! They just couldn't take the sight of your pale little face anymore!"

"Stop it!" Avonlea said over the whipping of the wind around her.

"You are a foul," Rotunda took a step, "wicked, poor excuse for a girl!" Angry tears began to rise to Avonlea's eyes. The rain outside had become a down pour. The trees swayed and shook in the storm. Lightning struck, and thunder crashed. The sky had gone a sickly shade of green. "You are pathetic and useless! The world would have been a better place if your mother had never had the misfortune of giving you birth!"

A single tear burned down Avonlea's face, and a wave of wind crashed through the open window, its invisible body slamming into Rotunda Klaus. She stumbled back into the center of the room, and the forces of the wind began to spin around her, circling like a tornado. The woman screeched and flailed her arms.

Then, the air began to tug at the woman's gigantic suit, ripping off shreds of gray material and spitting them out all over the room, like the jaws of a mad dog. Fabric plastered to the walls and hit some of the girls.

A few of the girls began to laugh at the sight of their feared caretaker being stripped by a funnel cloud. Rotunda had started to dance around the center of the room, clinging to her garments as the wind pulled at them with angry hands, and clawed at them with viscous nails.

Then, Avonlea wiped the tear from her cheek with a shaking hand, and the storm began to die down. The sky began to lighten, and the rain dried in the air. And the wind retreated back out the window, leaving a stunned Rotunda Klaus in nothing but her floral camisole and checkered knickers and shoes, surrounded by scraps of what once was her gray suit.

She recovered from shock exceedingly quickly. An angry flush of deep red rushed from her neck up to the roots of her hair. When she opened her mouth to speak, the words came out in a deafening howl:

"Scrub the loo, Wickentower! Every inch with your toothbrush! And if I catch anyone helping you, they'll be cleaning the toilet seats with their tongues!" She screamed, then rushed out of the room and down the stairs.

Once she had fled, the room erupted in gleeful giggles and loud chattering. But even as the other girls laughed, and Helen gave her another broad grin, Avonlea couldn't shake the burning hate and anger that swelled in her chest and was now coursing through her veins. Instead of joining in the delight of the other girls, she fumbled blindly for her toothbrush, and headed down the stairs to the girl's toilets.

---------------

She plunged her hands deep into the ice-cold bucket. Soapy water flooded over the sides of the tin pail as she soaked the rag in the water. Slowly, she ran out the cloth, and began to scrub the floor of the bathroom. As she knelt on the floor, her jeans became drenched in chilly water slowly spreading over the tiles, running through the cracks between the squares like hundreds of tiny streams.

She could see her reflection in the thin layer of sudsy water on the floor. Her long blonde hair fell over her shoulders, her blue eyes caught the light from the small dirty window, and her pale skin gleamed in the sun. She had delicate features and a fair complexion. A few freckles dotted her cheeks and nose, and ran the lengths of her arms, like little constellations of stars in a white sky.

She continued to clean, scrubbing and scouring. Occasionally she hummed softly. Outside the window, a bird chirped, and traffic sounded on the road. Before she had finished with most of the bathroom, the sun was lowering in the sky, turning the clouds a light shade of pink.

There was a creak as the door opened softly behind her. Avonlea turned quickly to see Helen's silhouette in the doorway.

"Avie," She whispered, coming into the bathroom. "How is everything?" Helen asked, concern in her voice.

Avonlea glanced at the drained bucket and gleaming tiles. She shrugged tiredly.

"I stole away," Helen said, lowering herself onto the floor next to Avonlea. "To bring you this." A large key dropped from Helen's hand, suspended from her wrist by a long chain.

Avonlea opened her mouth slightly, taken aback. Carefully, she wrapped her fingers around the gleaming key. It seemed heavy in her palm, maybe not from weight, but from importance. "The key to the record room..."

"I nicked it off Rotunda, after her tea-time nap." Helen smiled. "You... You should go, while you have the chance."

Avonlea stood, muttering her thanks, and headed for the door, leaving Helen sitting on the floor. As she turned her hand around the knob, Helen spoke one last time.

"Happy Birthday, Avonlea."

She turned the key slowly in the lock. The door swung open with a loud clunk. Rusted filing cabinets lined the walls, leaving barely space enough to stand in the center of the small room. She closed the door behind her; the thud against the wall sent up clouds of dust around the room.

Quietly, she read the labels on the drawer closest to her: arrivals. She pulled it open and scanned the names of the folders. _Alamaster_..._ Bingsworth_... _Duncin_... The names of decades of girls flew past her eyes. _Marlebow_... _Purcely_... _Wickentower.._. Her heart jumped, and she snatched the folder.

Inside the manila folder was a single white sheet. The header read "Department of Child Services." The rest was filled in with cramped handwriting in blue ink. It listed her name and date of admittance: her sixth birthday, on October the thirteenth, exactly ten years ago.

With hungry eyes, she read the rest of the paper. She looked at it for so long, she was sure that if she closed her eyes, she would still be able to see it in her mind. Then, her eyes fell upon something they had missed: _Belongings_. After shoving the folder back into its place, she searched the rest of the drawers of the other filing cabinets until she found one with a card that read her name. She took a breath, and slowly pulled it open.

-----------------

Heart racing, she ran out the back door and into the light of the setting sun. She fell to her knees besides the old rotting iron swing. Heart racing, she settled her treasure into the grass. It was

a large box, long held captive by the metal prison of the cabinet drawer. The dusty mahogany of the wood gleamed red in the light. She ran her pale fingers across the smooth, carved lid. The scene lain in the wood depicted a fairy in a forest glen, sitting on a rock with a foot dangling in a stream, her long dress spilling onto the ground around her.

Breathless, she found the small gold clasp on the lid, and clicked the box open. As the box opened, the breeze around her stirred, picking up the ends of her blonde hair and spinning them around her shoulders.

Her eyes first found a small clay box, tiled with colorful mosaics. She spilled its contents into her hand. Several rings and bracelets rested in her palm. Next, she pulled out a velvet bound book. She leafed through the empty pages, she discerned it was a blank diary.

She set the clay box and diary in the grass, now focusing on the object taking up the majority of the space inside the box. Gently, she withdrew a package, wrapped in a beautiful blue silk. As she held the object in her hands hands, yards of the gorgeous fabric unraveled and fell to the ground, covering Avonlea in a sea of blue, and finally revealing its contents.

It was a Fabrege egg, made from delicate white and sky-blue porcelain. Tiny gold flowers and vines laced the top and flat bottom. Painted on the creamy shell was a ballroom, filled with dancing figures, all dressed in elaborate Victorian gowns and suits. She turned the egg slowly, tracing the gilted lines around the shell. Then, faint voices reached her ears. She brought the egg closer. A quiet choir of voices began to sing in the breeze.

Suddenly. painting began to move. The ballroom came alive before her eyes: the chandelier twinkling with a thousand candles, a group of women laughing in the corner, and the couples dancing gracefully across the shell.

She watched as a small girl in a pink dress emerged from the crowd. She looked up at Avonlea, then pointed a minuscule hand towards the ceiling of the ballroom. Avonlea followed her gesturing finger, and saw a small clasp of gold, dusted with pearls and gems. She glanced down at the girl, who smiled back, curtsied, and disappeared back into the expanse of the ballroom.

As Avonlea opened the lid of the bewitched egg, the choir of voices became louder, and the sky above her darkened. Everything was still for a moment: Avonlea looking into the darkness within, the dancers stopping mid-step, the wind freezing in its place.

Then, there was a soft explosion of light from the egg. As Avonlea blinked away her temporary blindness, she saw a figure emerge as the rays of bright white faded. It was a woman in a long white robes, with long blonde hair. Her eyes were blue and her skin was pale. Their was a pang in her heart as Avonlea remembered that face from a fleeting childhood memory.

It was her mother.

Lightning crashed in the distance, and thunder sounded in the cool air. The breeze picked back up, spinning around the trees and the fence, pushing the creaking swing behind her. Avonlea touched her finger cautiously to her mother's white robe; she couldn't feel them, but she could see them. Tears pricked her eyes. It was like she was a ghost.

The music faded, the choir dropping the last note suddenly, and the small body of light began to speak. "Avonlea..." The voice that she remembered as her mother's sounded pained. The expression on the woman's face matched her tone. "Today is your sixteenth birthday."

Avonlea drew in a quick breath. "Mom?" She whispered.

But the figure didn't hear her. Instead, her mother continued on. "I don't know where you are, or if you'll ever get this. Maybe," She paused. "Maybe, I am watching it with you..." She trailed off. "There are not enough words in this world, Avie, nor near enough time."

Her mother looked up at her and continued. "I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me. What I did... Leaving you.... I did it to protect you. I did it for you. Even though it pained me more than anything I have ever done, I had to do it. I hope you can forgive me." Tears streaked down her mother's face.

"Today is a very special day, Avonlea. Not only does it mark the sixteen years you have lived, but it also is the day in which you come into your birthright. You have powers, my daughter, far beyond that of the people around you. You may have experienced this gift, but nothing like abilities you will have from this day forth." A hint of pride showed in the woman's face.

"That is why you need to be among those who are like you, to be able to grow and be taught. And to be given answers. Answers to the thousands of questions you must have, but I cannot answer." She looked up hopefully at her daughter. "There is a school, in the north of Scotland, hidden from those who seek it, but there for those who most need it. It is called Hogwarts School of," She hesitated again. "Witchcraft and Wizardry."

Avonlea choked on tears. Everything that her mother had said, even seeing her again, was overwhelming, but this, this was too much.

When her mother spoke again, it was in a hurried voice. "You may not believe what you are hearing, but you have to trust me. I may not deserve that trust, but you have to believe me. An owl will come with instructions. I have a friend there, actually, more like a mother, who knows who you are and where you came from. She is ready for you, and will tell you everything you need to know. Her name is Minerva McGonagall. Trust her with your life, Avie. Maybe if I had, your father and I would be there with you..." Her words faded. She was fighting a war with the tears flooding from her eyes.

"I love you, Avonlea, more than life. I hope that someday you can love me, too." Her mother tossed a scared look over her shoulder, her face was shot with fear.

"Mom..." Avonlea said.

"There is a necklace inside this egg. Take it, and wear it always. I have to go... "

"No. No, please stay." Avonlea gripped the egg. The sky was now black. The wind howled ferociously and the lightning was coming faster. Rain began to fall in sheets to the ground.

"Happy birthday."

"Don't leave me again. Mom, no!"

"Goodbye, Avonlea." Her mother said, and she disappeared with a small blast of light.

Avonlea collapsed, sobbing, to the soaked ground. Rain pelted her skin like icy needles and thunder shook the earth. Over the storm, music began to play. Now it was a lullaby, serenading the night, but the dancing figures had vanished from the egg.

Then, there was a swooping sound from the sky, and the jingle and crash as something landed on the rusted iron swing. In the darkness, the swing shook and rocked back and forth. Avonlea pulled herself up out the muddy grass. Inside the egg, a blue light gleamed. She slowly pulled it out. It was an intricate necklace, with an teardrop pearl the size of a pound and the color of a clear summer sky. It was protected by a weaving of small silver vines and flowers that connected to a long chain. The pearl pulsed with a soft light.

By the light of the necklace clenched in her hand, she turned to see an owl on the swing, wings spread and talons gripping the seat as the wind shook the old metal. In its beak, it held a letter. As Avonlea held the necklace closer, the blue haze of the pearl's light gleaned against the green letters written on creamy parchment, and read:

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry._


End file.
